What We Talk about in “Let’s Talk About It” By Ron McFarland Was it Joanne Harris’s Chocolat or Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate that I presented at Sandpoint in 1997, one of roughly eighty sessions of the Idaho Commission … Continue reading →
Author Archives: Ron McFarland
About Ron McFarlandRon McFarland has taught literature and creative writing at the University of Idaho since 1970. Pecan Grove Press published his fourth full-length book of poems, Subtle Thieves, in 2012. Recent critical books include Appropriating Hemingway (2015) and Edward J. Steptoe and the Indian Wars (2016).
Coming at UI from Everywhere By Ron McFarland Photos courtesy of Ron McFarland One summer morning in the mid-1970s, I got a call from my University of Idaho colleague, the late Teo Sipahigil. Teo hailed from Turkey, and he came … Continue reading →
As it happened, I was working as an assistant at the public library in Cocoa, Florida, the summer of 1961 when, on the morning of July 2, Ernest Hemingway took up his prized shotgun in Ketchum and, as a buddy informed me, “blew his head off.” Continue reading →
By Ron McFarland
She could not, would not fly. This poet, whose books boasted such titles as Cruelty and Killing Floor and most recently Sin was, it seemed, afraid to fly. At that moment twenty-odd years ago, she embodied the very definition of edginess and wrath and poetic violence. But she would not fly. Continue reading →
When I arrived in Idaho more than forty years ago, I swore I would not allow myself to fall prey to the allure and blandishments of fly-fishing enthusiasts. I would not yield to the mystique. I felt the whole business was too darned precious, a tad too hoity-toity. Also, fly fishing would doubtless require a pricey set of waders, a costly fly rod, a broad array of feathery insects (not cheap), and exotic volumes of arcana dating back to Sir Izaak Walton and Charles Cotton. If I were to “get involved” with this ostensibly fair maiden, it could prove risky in various ways. Instead of the reliable, stationary, bank-fishing mistress I’d courted over the years, I would find myself incessantly rambling along the banks of rivers and creeks, splashing across snot-slippery rocks in icy mountain streams. I would fall head over heels, and not necessarily in love. I would need to access an entirely different langue d’amour having to do with everything from tippets to matching the hatch, from roll-casting to where-the-hell-did-that-willow-come-from? She seemed out of my league. I could imagine myself whispering regretfully one evening as the mayflies hatched and I tied on a Light Cahill with my newly-mastered clinch knot, “This is getting too complicated.” Continue reading →